Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(40)

Mrs. Stearns watched them. I see, she said. You better come in here in that case.

They passed into the room wordlessly. Her apartment was just as it always was: crowded rooms that were too hot, the stores of papers and old bills on the floor and the grocery sacks of her saved remnants loaded onto the ironing board and the portable tv on top of the big hardwood console, and over it all the inevitable smell of her cigarette smoke and the accumulation of Holt County dust. She shut the door and stood looking at them, thinking, considering, a humpbacked woman in a thin blue housedress and apron, wearing a pair of men’s wool socks inside her worn slippers, leaning on her twin silver canes.

I tell you what we better do, she said. I’ve been thinking of making cookies. But I don’t have all of the ingredients and I’ve been too lame and too lazy to go get them. You might go purchase them for me, would you?

What do you need? they said.

I’ll make a list. Do you boys eat oatmeal cookies?

Yes. We like them.

Very well. That’s what we’ll make.

She lowered herself into the stuffed chair against the wall. It took a considerable period of time. When she was seated she caught her breath and stood the two canes beside the chair. She settled the skirts of her dress and apron over her thin knees, then she said, Bring me my purse from the table in there. You know where it is.

Bobby stepped into the next room, where it was just as crowded and just as hot, and found her purse and brought it back and set it in her lap. They stood in front of the chair, watching. Her head was bent forward and they could see that the fine thin yellow-white hair scarcely covered her skull and that her ears looked raw where the bows of her glasses fit over them. The cord of her old-fashioned hearing aid curled down into the neck of her housedress where it disappeared.

She opened the leather purse and took out a wallet, then extracted ten dollars. She gave the money to Ike. That should be more than enough, she said. Bring back the change.

Yes, ma’am.

Now what do we need? She peered at them as if they might know. They stared back at her patiently, simply waiting, standing in front of her. We need most of it, she said.

She took out an ink pen and scratched about in the purse but could not find what else she wanted.

Here, she said. Give me something to write on. That paper will do. Hand me that newspaper. It was the morning’s Denver News, still rolled in the rubber band the boys had put on it early that morning at the depot. She unrolled it and from the front page tore off a ragged piece and began to write along the white margin, listing the ingredients—oatmeal, eggs, brown sugar—writing in the old school-taught Palmer script in the fluid style, but shaky now as though she were shivering from cold or fever. There, she said. I gave you the money. She looked at Ike. I’m giving you the shopping list, she said to Bobby. She handed him the scrap of newspaper. Go ahead now. Go on. I’ll be waiting.

But where should we get these, Mrs. Stearns? Ike said.

At Johnson’s. You know the grocery store.

Yes. We know it.

That’s where.

They turned and started out.

Wait, she said. How are you going to get back in here? I don’t want to have to get up and answer the door again. She took a key from the purse and handed it to them.

They left her apartment and went down the stairs to the sidewalk and into the sharp winter air on Main Street and on to Johnson’s at the corner of Second. When they were inside the store it was a good deal more complicated than they had thought it would be. On the ranks of shelves were two brands of brown sugar. Also, there were quick oats and regular oats and two measures of the cardboard barrels they came in. And with eggs, three sizes and two colors. They debated the matter between themselves, standing in the aisles of the store while around them the other shoppers, middle-aged women and young mothers, looked at them curiously and went on pushing their full carts.

We settled on the cheap brown sugar, Ike said.

Yes, Bobby said.

And the big one of regular oats.

Yes.

So now with eggs we take the medium ones.

Why?

Because they’re in the middle.

So?

It makes a difference, Ike said. The one between the other two ones. It makes it even.

Bobby looked at him, considering. All right, he said. Which color?

Which color?

Brown or white.

They turned toward the refrigerated case once more and regarded the tiers of cardboard egg cartons. Mother bought white ones, Ike said.

She’s not our mother, Bobby said. Maybe she wants brown ones.

Why would she want brown ones?

She had us get brown sugar.

So?

Because it comes in white too, Bobby said. Only she said brown.

All right, Ike said. Brown eggs.

All right, Bobby said.

Medium sized.

All right then.

They carried the eggs and oats and sugar up to the front of the store to the cash register and paid the checkout woman. She smiled at them. You boys making something good? she said. They didn’t answer but took the change from her hand and went back outside and up the stairs to the old woman’s dark and overheated rooms above the alley. They used the key and went in without knocking and discovered her asleep in the chair they’d left her in. She was breathing faintly, a quiet sigh and recover, her head lapsed forward onto the yoke of her blue housedress. They approached and stood before her, hesitant, and seeing how faint the movement was in her chest, watching the meager rise and collapse of the housedress, they felt a little frightened. Ike leaned forward and said, Mrs. Stearns. We’re back. They stood before her, waiting. They watched her. Mrs. Stearns, he said. He leaned forward again. We’re here. He touched her arm.